


Vergolden uns diesen Tag

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, FIFA World Cup 2014, Footy Ficathon, Gen, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon, this is the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written tbh, will I ever be over Miro Klose? probably not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3569084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the eighty-ninth minute of regular play and Miroslav Klose is still on the pitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vergolden uns diesen Tag

**Author's Note:**

> So I came across [this](http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html?thread=903357#t903357) prompt on the Footy Ficathon and ohhh my god, this has been the subject of so many nerdy late-night ‘what if?’ discussions between me and brother that I basically already knew exactly how it was going to go. This is my dream. This is my perfect world.
> 
> Title is a lyric nicked from Auf Uns because I’m an emotional mess.

 

 

It’s the eighty-seventh minute of the match and Miro knows, he already knows, that barring some kind of cosmic event this is going to go into extra time. If the past hour and a half has told him anything, it’s that both teams are too even and too wound-up to score before the end of regular play.

He also knows that his legs are _killing_ him.

He really hasn’t played a full ninety in...well, in a long time. He’s more used to being brought on in the final quarter of a game, to add a spark and maybe pull something out of his sleeve. Jogi’d let him start this one out of respect, Miro knows that. A symbol to let Germany hit the ground running, to calm them down in this most vital of confrontations. It’s Messi versus the Machine, everyone says. Miro is there to remind them all that this Machine has a heart.

But it’s the eighty-seventh minute and Miro has shaken his sleeves and they’ve turned out to be empty. Maybe he’s all run out of cards by now. He’s broken the record: he’s the top of the chart. But maybe this is as far as he’s going to be allowed to go.

It’s the eighty-seventh minute and Mario Gӧtze is warming up. Miro can see him there at the touchline as planned. His substitute, ready to come on.

No one expects Miro to play a full match. _Miro_ doesn’t expect Miro to play a full match. Mario will come on and replace him and he will exit the stage of his international career, top of the goal-scoring chart and, at the very least, a World Cup runner up.

(World Cup runner up for the second time. But hey, second place isn’t so bad, right?)

( _Germany is number one at not being number one,_ jokes some late-night television host, and the crowd laughs, used to losing at this point.)

(2002, 2006, 2010, 20...)

Mario Gӧtze is warming up. Jogi catches Miro’s eye and nods. Next stoppage. Let the curtain drop. There will be applause; you’ve been brilliant in any case. You’ll make your bow and so maybe it won’t be a leading player bow, maybe you won’t be the last off the stage before the house lights come up and everyone goes home, but it’ll be a good bow nonetheless.

And it would be nice to sit down.

His legs really are killing him.

It’s the eighty-eighth minute of regular play and Miro knows that this is going to go into extra time. There’s no spark, no drive to get it done before then. The teams are missing something.

Mario is walking up to the fourth official. There’s a weak shot from Argentina. Manuel doesn’t even need to come out of his box as Thomas jogs back to collect, clearing the ball out. Argentina throw-in.

(Messi versus the Machine. It doesn’t matter if a Machine has to replace a part, because it will function just the same.)

But Germany isn’t a Machine. Not this time around. This time Germany is something just a little bit more.

The fourth official is punching the appropriate numbers into his sign, ready to make the substitution and Miro catches Jogi’s eye. Shakes his head, slightly. Jogi raises an eyebrow, _are you sure?_ But he’s already giving a low shout to Mario, issuing counter-instructions. Jogi is letting him stay on. Miro feels a rush of affection and gratitude towards his coach. He’s being trusted here. He’s being trusted to know well enough if staying on won’t be a hindrance to the team.

His legs are really killing him. But hey- he’s been running hard for eighty-eight minutes. A player claiming not to be tired would be a player lying.

Outside the touchline at centre, Mario looks surprised only for a moment before grinning widely. He looks straight at Miro and flashes a thumbs up, mouthing something that looks like ‘ja Opa!’ at him, no trace of annoyance at being suddenly denied playing time in the World Cup final. He really is a treasure, that kid. He goes back to the bench where Jogi pats him on the shoulder. Be ready anyway. In case Miro, you know, breaks a hip or something.

Miro really hopes that this doesn’t turn out to be a disastrous error on his part. He hopes he can draw one last good card.

It’s the eighty-ninth minute of regular play and Miroslav Klose is still on the pitch.

The near-substitution hadn’t been lost on the crowd and there’s a ripple running through not just the German supporters but the Argentines as well. The stadium can feel the winds change, clouds moving along across the blue sky with more urgency than they had moments before. A tiny spark of potential energy turned electric humming through a circuit, a path almost taken disappearing behind the trees.

Miro can see it in his team as well. They had been flagging ever so slightly, exhaustion and frustration turning their legs to lead. Eighty-nine minutes and nothing to show for it had taken its toll, but suddenly, ever so slightly, there’s a glimmer.

It’s the eighty-ninth minute of regular play and Miroslav Klose is still on the pitch.

Everyone knows this is a change. Nobody expects Miro to play a full match. His legs are killing him.

There’s a pause in play a few seconds later with an Argentinean goal kick and Thomas nudges him in the side. “Hey,” he says, “Don’t come so far back, yeah? Let us midfielders do some of the running like we’re actually supposed to. Fancy striker like you shouldn’t be associating with us rabble anyway.” He winks in that horrible, lopsided way of his and Miro doesn’t point out that Thomas’ role on the team is basically a striker as well, he just accepts the gift and smiles.

Something has changed in Germany and the team seems to be making a whole minute out of every thirty seconds. Philipp is pushing the line up, higher and higher in what (in the hands of anybody but Philipp Lahm) could be called a reckless fashion, leaving Manuel to cover far more of the pitch than he’s supposed to do (although Miro is pretty sure Manu’s actually living his dream there, out of his box and half-way to the centre circle).

There are three minutes of stoppage time and it’s the ninety-second minute of play and there. There is a wave. Germany is the ocean and there is a _wave,_ a sudden revolt against tired limbs and aching feet and Germany _pushes_ , Messi and Argentina caught in the tide, the inexorable tide that is the team that has lost more World Cup top-fours than any other and is ready to win one, twenty years ago they had a crumbling wall and a divided people and they did it, damn anyone to hell who says they can’t do it now, this is the Golden Generation and the New Hope and it’s the ninety-third minute and Miroslav Klose is still on the pitch, it’s the end of an era and the fulfilment of something that started, really started in 2002 after coming so close and 2006 with a home crowd that loved them despite the bronze medals around their necks and Philipp is yelling something as the midfielders rush in and Miro is up keeping a high line with a practised eye on the offsides and he hears the sound of a boot connecting with a ball and.

There is a ball drifting down onto the grass not fifteen centimetres in front of him.

Time. Slows. Down.

There are dark blue jerseys beside him but he can see the path through them with that brilliant clarity he is occasionally gifted with: he is just outside the penalty box, waiting. Miroslav Klose, Germany’s striker, outside the box with a beautiful assisting pass right to his tired feet and it’s not the World Cup final, it’s just another match and Miro does what he’s best at. It’s not even difficult. He’s already moving.

It’s just routine, really: he sweeps the ball up and quietly, softly, like the leading actor last on stage offering the humble bow he’s always been ready to give to his team, his country, himself, Miroslav Klose scores.

**Author's Note:**

> The excellent [doubtthestars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3132563) has tagged a Miro fic as a 'small love letter'. I adore that. So consider this an alternate universe love letter for one of the most inspirational players both on and off the pitch I’ll ever have the privilege of watching. I’ve been waiting for this win since ’06! You’ll always be my squad! (Mario: no hard feelings. Your goal was beautiful.)
> 
> (an extra note for clarification: in this version of events, the game doesn’t end up going into extra time after all.)


End file.
